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LINCOLN 

AND 

TWENTY OTHER POEMS 

By 
COTTON NOE, Author 

"The Loom of Life," 
"The Blood of Rachel," Etc. 



LINCOLN 

AND 

TWENTY OTHER POEMS 

By 
COTTON NOE, Author 

'The Loom of Life," 
'The Blood of Rachel," Etc. 






COPYRIGHT BY 

COTTON NOE 

1922 



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• 
• • « 



C1A704234 



DEC -4 72 



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•CONTENTS 



LINCOLN 

THE OLD FASHIONED LOOM 

THE OLD WATERMILL 

THE OLD SPINNING WHEEL 

IN THE HAPPY LONG AGO 

JOHN AND JUNE 

LOVE AND LUST 

REINCARNATION 

TIP SAMS 

TOM HICKS 

O' SHEA'S CHOICE 

UP TO DATE 

ORIENTALS 

UNCLE JOHN ON SANITATION 

THE GREAT AMERICAN HOME 

PHIL JIM 

MART COMBS 

THE GOLDEN FLEECE 

THIN BRITCHES DICK 

TINY MEEK 

SQUEEZER JOHN 



LINCOLN 

Ths Brief for world democracy 

Is Lincoln. 

It was not accident of birth 

That made him great. 

Born within the palace of a king, 

He would have cast the royal purple off 

To clothe a shivering hind; 

Or hearing hunger's cry, 

Have plucked the jewels 

From an ancient crown 

To save the starving child. 

He was at home alike 

In palace-hut of uncrowned peasant kings 

And cabin-mansion of the presidents. 

For it was man he loved — 

The prince no less than pauper — 

The slave that treads the mill of toil 

As much as him who feeds upon the grist. 

And why make much of Lincoln's poverty? 

Like Christ this man had bread to eat 

We know not of; 

And treasures stored where moths can not corrupt 

Nor ever thieves break through and steal. 

He was not poor, but rich 

Beyond all reckoning — 

Inheritor of human love, 

The heir of Him who taught the world 

The priceless wage of sacrifice — 

The gift of spending self 

In human benefactions. 

What matter that he went to school 
By pineknot or electric glare? 
The light that never was on land or sea 
Was his. 

The page of knowledge that alone 
Could satisfy his soul 
Was taken from the book 
Of human deeds, 



And Lincoln read between the lines 
What vulgar eyes could never see. 

This giant of the backwoods 

Knew the art of splitting rails 

And riving knotty problems 

With the wedge of facts. 

He used no sophistry, 

Nor ever led the simple mind astray 

In mystic paths beyond the beaten road. 

He understood the people's heart, 

And found expression in the tongue of truth. 

He was a miracle to a doubting age, — 

Despised by those he loved the most — 

As patient as the stars 

That from the birth of time 

Have looked on deeds of wrong 

And never lost their faith; 

As sturdy as the oak that lifts 

Its strength against the giant storm — 

Responsive as the aspen to the zephyr's breath. 

He heard the still sad music of humanity, 

But shook the burden from the Soul 

In parables of fun — 

Exchanged the buskin for the sock 

To save his fellow man. 



THE OLD-FASHIONED LOOM 

The old log house where Margaret lived whose roof had mossy 

grown, 
Reposed amid its clump of trees, a queen upon her throne. 
The landscape round smiled proudly and the flowers shed sweet 

perfume, 
When Margaret plied the shuttles of the rude old-fashioned loom. 

The world has grown fastidious — demands things ever new — 
But we could once see beauties in the rainbow's every hue; 
The bee could then find nectar in a common clover bloom, 
And simple hearts hear music in the shuttle of the loom. 

The picture that my memory paints is never seen to-day — 

The April sun of by-gone years has lost its brightest ray: 

A farcy-wrought piano in a quaint, antique old room, 

But Margaret sang her sweetest to ihe music of the loom. 
She wore a simple home-spun dress, for Margaret's taste was 

plain, 
Yet life was like a song to her, with work a sweet refain. 
The sunshine filled her days with joy, night's shadows brought 

no gloom, 
When Margaret plied the shuttle of the old old-fashioned loom. 

Her warp of life was daily toil, but love and song its woof; 
The web she wove, a character beyond the world's reproof. 
I've heard great prima donnas, who wore gold and lace costume, 
But oh, the song and shuttle of the old old-fashioned loom. 



THE OLD WATER MILL 

'Twas grinding day at the Old Water Mill, 

But holiday with me, 
For I knew when I reached the foot of the hill 
And heard the voice of the happy rill, 

The miller's beautiful child was there 

That wore the tresses of sun-lit hair 
And smile of witchery; 

And the twittering swallows a whirl in the air, 
Told in their ecstacy 
That Rachel, the Golden Daffodil, 
Was blooming again by the Old Water Mill. 

Together we cross the moss-covered log 

That spans the old mill race, 
And we hear through the mists and rising fog 
The boom of the dam, the croak of the frog, 

That wakes, on the banks of the glinting stream, 

The violet tranced in her winter dream, 
Where lights and shadows lace; 

And the cowslip, like the meteror's gleam, 
Darts from her hiding-place, 
While the cataracts leap in their haste to fill 
The floats of the wheel at the Old Water Mill. 

We sit by the dam of the placid stream 

And watch the whirl and churn 
Of the pouring floods that bubble and steam 
And glitter and flash in the bright sunbeam, 

While steadily rolls the dripping wheel 

That slowly grinds the farmers' meal, 
Who restless wait their turn; 

But the lights in the miller's face reveal 
Never the least concern, 
Who takes his toll, and whistles until 
The hopper is drained at the Old Water Mill. 

To-day we passed where the Old Water Mill 

Had stood in the long ago, 
But the cataracts leap no more on the hill, 
And the boom of the roaring dam is still, 



For the gleaming stream in its grief went dry, 
When the ruthless hand of Art passed by 

And laid the Old Mill low; 
And the violets, cold in death, now lie 
Wrapped in the glistening snow; 
And the biting air is crisp and chill 
Around the ruins of the Old Water Mill. 

» 

And now we sit by the River of Time 

And gaze at the waves below, 
Tho its brink is covered with frost and rime, 
And we hear on the wind a muffled chime 

Proclaiming the end of a brief sojourn: 

Yet the floods of life still whirl and churn 
As the currents ebb and flow; 

By the rolling wheel we wait our turn. 
Calm, but ready to go. 
The hopper is drained, but unmoved still, 
The Miller who grinds in Time's Water Mill. 



THE OLD SPINNING WHEEL 

A cabin! It nestled amid the green hills 

Where grew no bramble or thistle, — 
Mid Meadows melodious with music and trills 
And song that the wild-throated mocking bird spills 

On the air from his marvelous whistle. 
No carpets were seen on the broad puncheon floors, 

No paintings that wealth would reveal; 
But a statue was there that Art can not know, 
That filled the rude room with a musical glow, — 

'Twas Ruth at the Old Spinning Wheel! 

Long years have passed by; its music was stilled 

At rattle and whirr of machinery. 
And the pea-fowl now screams where the mocking bird trilled. 
And the landscape is dead where once the heart thrilled 

At wildwood and picturesque scenery. 
The opera may boast the diva of song, 

To me she makes no appeal; 
To flute obligato my heart is still dumb, 
But oh! for the song and musical hum 

Of Ruth and the Old Spinning Wheel! 

She lived but a simple, plain rustic life. 

Yet charming in sooth was her beauty. 
In her untutored heart was love ever rife, 
The seat of no conflict, no struggle or strife 

'Twixt a selfish will and duty. 
I bow at her altar of beauty and truth, 

At the shrine of her heart do I kneel, 
With a prayer no mortal ever lifted above, 
Till my soul is atune with the music of love 

She sings to the Old Spinning Wheel! 

This unlettered maiden was poor, but high-bred, 

Oh, women of fashion far above you! 
And I thrilled at the graceful poise of her head 
And the radiant smile of my love when she said, 

"Why, James, you know that I love you." 
Nymph-like her lithe form swayed as in dance, 

I awkwardly sat at the reel — 



A moment's surcease of monotonous thrum, — 
Melodious the lull in the song and the hum 
Of Ruth and the Old Spinning Wheel! 

The glow of the incandescent light 

Has banished the tallow candle; 
And the ox-cart is gone at steam's rapid flight, 
But Love is too subtle, is too recondite 

For Learning or Genius to handle. 
All honor to Science, let her keep her mad pace, 

I abate not a tittle her zeal; 
But the splendors of life can never efface 
The picture of Ruth in plain rustic grace 

Who wrought at the Old Spinning Wheel! 



IN THE HAPPY LONG AGO. 

Yes, I see him, he is sitting 

By his little cabin door. 
Ah, but Dinah's gone. She left him 

For the shining golden shore; 
Left old Isham where he's dreaming 

With his head bowed deep and low, 
Thinking only now of Dinah, 

And the happy long ago. 

Long the kinky wool was creamy, 

Now as white as any snow; 
And his eyes are red and dreamy 

Thinking of the long ago. 
Master sleeps beneath the ivy, 

Missus where the daisies blow; 
Near them Dinah, and old Isham's 

Dreaming of the long ago; 

Thinking of the days when Dinah 

Won old Missus' heart and praise 
By her dainty, tempting dishes 

And her oldtime well-bred ways: 
When his own black arm was brawny, 

Swift the step that now is slow; 
When he stole the heart of Dinah 

In the happy long ago. 

And old Master; — did you know him, 

Colonel Richard James McClurg? 
Wounded twice at Chicamauga, 

Lost an arm at Gettysburg. 
Freed his slaves before the outbreak 

But they followed him to war: 
Two were killed defending Colonel, 

Fighting like the Norse God Thor. 

Three returned to live with Master. 

Isham dreams at ninety-four; 
Do not wake him, he is living 

In the days that are no more: 



Rolling acres stretching northward 

Like an undulating sea; 
Herds that graze the blue-grass woodlands 

Noted for their pedigree. 

Manor house a stately mansion, 

Massive rooms and spacious halls, 
Home of chivalry and beauty, 

Hospitality and balls. 
Hunts that lasted through a fortnight, 

Men and women in the chase, 
Blooded hounds as well as horses 

Outstripped Reynard in the race. 

Harvest time and big corn shuckings, 

Crops all in before the snow; 
Possum feasts and sweet potatoes 

Till the winter moon is low. 
Scenes like these in Old Kentucky 

Common sixty years ago, 
Pass through Isham's aged dreaming 

Like a panoramic show. 

What care they for such romances? 

Negroes versed in modern lore; 
Just a fool is poor old Isham, 

Dozing by his cabin door. 
Ah, I know why Isham's dreaming 

Where the gourd-vines twine and grow 
He is living in Kentucky, 

In the happy long ago. 



JOHN AND JUNE 

Old John and June were very poor 

And lived on wretched fare, 
But hollyhocks bloomed at their door 
And sunflowers everywhere; 
And thrushes sang an endless tune 
To cheer the hearts of John and June. 

Now John and June live all alone 

Except for little Jack — 
An autocrat upon his throne 

In that rude mountain shack — 
For Just a telegram one day, 
And mammy Jane had pined away. 

John could not buy a savings stamp, 

Nor Jack a baby bond; 
The call came from the Red Cross camp 
But June could not respond, 
With kindly autumn almost gone, 
And cruel winter coming on. 

John plowed an old blind worn-out nag 

And got but scanty yield; 
But June had wrought a service flag — 
With five stars in its field — 
Five little stars, now wealth untold. 
For every star has turned to gold. 



LOVE AND LUST 

Two pictures — Love and Lust, 

And each a three-months bride. 

Love is standing on a cottage porch, 

And leaning lightly on a broom 

She grasps in graceful but unjeweled hands. 

A riotous heart has pumped 

The rich red blood of health 

Into her girl-like cheeks, 

And blue eyes shimmer through a mist of joy, 

As she strains them in the growing dusk, 

To catch the figure of a swift approaching form. 

Lust stands before Delmonico's 

Beside her purple limousine. 

A rope of Indian pears 

Encircles thrice her alabaster neck, 

Entangling with a constellation of South Afric stars. 

The clinging silk outlines a model for Rodin. 

These pictures — both life size, in gilded frames — 

Hang near the entrance, 

In my Institute of Art. 

And at its exit, Love and Lust again 

But Lust has lost the Rodin form. 

The alabaster neck is creased and wrinkled 

With thirty years of indolence and waste, 

Though still encircled with a rope of pearls; 

And larger constellations sparkle in her henna'd hair. 

She lifts a red-eyed poodle 

From a scarlet limousine 

And strains it to her barren breasts — 

The emptiness of riches in her face, 

Though at her beck the luxury of the world. 

But Love now sits upon a Doric porch, 

A little cherub in her lap, 

And by her side three daughters — 

All now mothers. 

The wildest joy is in her heart, 

For just a blessed moment more 

And every child will leap in clamorous confusion 

To grand paternal arms, 

And leave their wondering madonnas, 

And even Love herself, 

To marvel on the ways of cherubim. 



REINCARNATION 
To S. S. N. 

It may be that we lived and loved in ages ago, 

And grazed our flocks together where Sicilian water flow; 

Or watched the shepherd, clouds and dreamed of pastures in the 

sky, 
Or played upon the rustic reed for lovers passing by. 

I may have been a Norman knight and you a Saxon queen 
Who held the castle of my heart as part of your demesne. 

Who knows but I was Remeo and you the Capulet 
That hated every Montague, my stainless Juliet? 

Or maybe I was Abelard and you were Eloise; 

Perhaps we fled for life and love across the stormy seas. 

I do not know, I do not care, but this I ask of fate 

That I may never live again where you are not my mate. 

I could not see the glint of gold upon another's hair, 
I could not know the joy of life unless I found you there; 

I would not have another's head to rest upon my breast, 
I could not let another touch the lips that you have pressed. 

Reincarnation here on earth without your hair, your eyes? 
I could not know a second love beyond the shining skies. 



TIP SAMS 

Tip Sams had twins 

And a razor-back sow, 
Five dogs and a mule 

And an old roan cow; 
A bone-spavined filly 

And a one-room house, 
And a little wrinkled woman 

Just as meek as a mouse. 
Old Tip raised tobacco 

And he trafficked in skins, 
For he had seven sons 

In addition to the twins, 
And every mother's son, 

And the little mammy, Jude, 
Smoked a pipe all day . . 

And the twins both chewed. 
But Tip kept a-digging 

And ne never lost heart, 
For the dogs hunted rabbits 

And they caught a right smart; 
And the bone-spavined filly 

And the mule pulled a plow, 
And they lived off the givings 

Of the old roan cow, 
And the acorn-fattened farrow 

Of the razor-back sow. 
But here the story closes 

Of my little romance, 
For the seven sons are sleeping 

On the battlefields of France; 
But their daddy grows tobacco 

And trafficks still in skins, 
And the little wrinkled mammy 

Has another pair of twins. 



TOM HICKS 

Tom Hicks had laid his seventh wife beneath the churchyard sod, 
And feeling somewhat lonesome-like he had old Lightfoot shod, 
And donned his longtail Sunday coat and started down the road 
That led beyond the shallow ford where Sallie Jones abode. 
We don't know why but Sallie seemed not in the least surprised 
When Tom rode up before her stiles; it may be she surmised 
Last Sunday at the funeral when she condoled his loss 
And saw him pale and trembly-like that he might ride across 
And thank his friends on Poplar Flat that took on at the grave, 
And showed their sympathy the way that decent folks behave. 
At any rate there Sallie sat and looked out toward the ford, 

And rocked and hummed an old love-tune and meekly thanked 

the Lord 
For all his many blessings to a maiden sixty-six — 
For Sallie still had three front teeth and faith in Thomas Hicks. 
And Tom had faith in Sallie, too, for he had watched her smiles 
Grow sweeter with each pilgrimage as he had passed her stiles 
In search of one and seven wives, and still she was the same 

True, patient, sympathetic friend. Thought Tom, "Twould be 
a shame 

To pass the spinster by again, and tho I'm some perplexed, 

All things considered now I think I'll make Miss Sallie next. 

And so Tom Hicks drew rein before the home of Sallie Jones, 

And hitched old Lightfoot to the fence — a pack of skin and 
bones — 

But Sallie played quite innocent and rocked and rocked and 
rocked, 

As Tom stood boldly at the door and knocked and knocked 

and knocked, 
Till finally, "Come in" she said, "why, oh! it's Mr. Hicks: 
You frightened me, so sudden-like." "Oh, Sallie, fiddlesticks! 
Now seriously, Miss Sallie Jones, it's growing rather late, 
And Parson Jones lives down the road, and Lightfoot's at the 

gate. 
I'm sixty-eight, if I'm a day, and you are sixty-six, 
But I've decided, Sallie Jones, to make you Sallie Hicks." 
"Be seated, won't, you Mr. Hicks," said Sallie coy and shy, 
"1 think that there were seven times when you did pass me by; 
But still I never lost my faith; I trusted, soon or late, 
You'd ride old Lightfoot down the road and hitch him to my gate. 
I'll not dissemble, Mr. Hicks, I knew* you when a boy, 
And won't pretend now to conceal my happiness and joy. 
I'm all a-flutter, I'll admit, for just an hour ago, 
I stood before old Parson Graves and married Richard Roe. 



HIS CHOICE 

O'Shea chould tell a good foxhound 

Of any age or size, 
And even new-born puppies by 

The marks around their eyes; 
He always knew which ones to keep 

And which ones should be drowned, 
And he was held authority 

Through all the country round. 

Now Hanrahan, his neighbor, had 

Three children born one day, 
And in his jubilation Pat 

Sent for his friend, O'Shea. 
"Oh, Mike, come over here today 

And bring your wife, Coleen, 
I've got the finest litter that 

Your eye has ever seen." 

An hour later Mike and Pat 

Stood by the trundle bed, 
And viewed the sleeping triplets till 

O'Shea spoke up and said: 
"Oh, Hanrahan, please lift that shade — 

Let in a bit of sun; 
There — Pat I think if I were you, 

I'd keep the middle one." 



UP TO DATE. 

They aint no use for horses now, 

Since Pap has got his Ford — 
Just cranks her up and takes the wheel, 

And hollers, "All aboard." 
Then Ma climbs in with Babe in front, 

And Mike and Dan and Cass, 
And me and Lize piles in behind, 

And Pap turns on the gas. 

They's just no use of talkin', boys, 

You ought to see her dart, 
And hit the road knee-deep in dust, 

And git there fore you start. 
We live ten miles from meetin' but 

The singin' aint begun, 
Nor nary man gone in the house, 

When Pap completes the run. 
When Lizzy puffs up smokin' like 

A pot of frankincense, 
The horses break their bridles and 

Tear down ten yards of fence; 
For Pap in his long whiskers and 

His tourin' attire, 
Looks just like old Elijy in 

His Chariot of fire. 
The taller candle and the lamp 

Has winked and dimmed away, 
Since this new-fangled Edison 

Makes night as liglit as day; 
The sanitary drinkin' cup 

Has plum knocked out the gourd, 
The thoroughbred's turned out to grass, 

Since Pap has got his Ford. 
Ma wears her dresses cut in style. 

Hiked way above her shoes. 
And auty mobile veil and hat 

Like all the tourists use ; 
But dog my cats if I don't wish — 

Pap looks so cussed weird — 
He'd get a safety razor now 

And try it on his beard. 



ORIENTALE. 

When Lot, the Bible tells us, 

With his little festive wife, 
Was hiking out of Sodom, 

Fairly fleeing for his life, 
So thick were ashes falling 

And so hot the fiery hail 
The running wasn't extra 

When the couple hit the trail. 
The story says the husband 

Hastened faster than the wife, 
By forty rods of travel, 

When the woman heard a fife, 
Or Canaanitish syrinx, 

Playing oriental jazz, 
And stopped and went to dancing 

Just as many a woman has, 
Although the Lord has warned her 

And the preacher's tried to show 
The devil's in the fiddle 

When the tickle's in the toe. 
But Lottie grew defiant, 

And she shouted out to Lot, 
"Now watch me shake the shimmy here 

And hit the turkey trot." 
But when she saw Gomorrah 

In the frenzy of the dance, 
And then toward burning Sodom 

Threw one longing, loving glance, 
An angry flame shot upward 

To the heaven's starry vault, 
And Lottie, dancing sinner, 

Was a pillar now of salt. 
And still she stands there gleaming, 

And I think and wonder as 
I listen to this modern, 

Awful, raucous, ragtime jazz. 
But what if we poor creatures do 

Cavort and rant and balk 
At such outlandish music 

And the beastly camel walk. 
The cows just lick complacently 

What once was Mrs. Lot, 
ADd bless the shimmy shiver 

And the charming turkey trot. 



UNCLE JOHN ON SANITATION. 

Sanitation's come to town, 

Women rippin' up and down 

Every street and alley-way 

Looking out for germs, they say. 

Hear 'em on the public square, 

Courthouse, meetin', everywhere, 

Spechify and rare and charge 

Hogs shan't longer run at large, 

Nor a billygoat or cow — 

Got to keep 'em all up now. 

Even dogs, they say, has fleas; 

Man, by gare, can't even sneeze. 

Got to wash now once a week 

In a bathtub, 'stead of creek, 

I'll be derned if I don't bet 

Have to get a toothbrush yet. 

Unkempt Bolsheviki shags 

Full of germs as alley rags. 

Claim that now a vandyke gem 

Ain't entirely free of 'em. 

Shave your mustache clean as siik 

Or cut out your buttermilk. 

Baby musn't suck his thum; 

Girls can't use their last night's gum 

Less the bedpost's sterilized. 

I'll not be one bit surprised 

If the court don't pass a law 

When the Old Man kisses Maw 

Both must wear a veil of gauze 

In this sanitation cause. 

I'm for prohibition straight, 

One per cent, as much as eight, 

Brandy, beer or wine or gin, 

But in kissin', I'm agin 

Using gauze or any trick 

That will minimize the kick. 



THE GREAT AMERICAN HOME 

"Oh, yes, he goes to Sunday School, but he just will refuse 
To comb his hair or brush his teeth, and never shines his shoes, 
And will not wear a tie. and just won't clean his finger nails. 
Fusses about his grades in school — no wonder that he fails — 
Now I just scrub and clean and work my very fingers off, 
But Dillard won't wear overshoes — just listen to him cough — 
And tracks my kitchen up with mud and throws his hat and coat — 
That child is sick right now — I know he has a sore throat, 
But he won't let me swab it out — declares it feels all right — 
He'd say that if his leg was broke." 

"His leg was broke ? That might 
Not give him sore throat." 

"Now there you go. That's just the way. 
I don't believe you care one bit for anything I say. 
All right then; let him rot with dirt, and never wash his face 
Or ears again, so far as I'm concerned. It's your disgrace 
As much as mine. I've done my part. But you just sit and read 
And let that child drive me insane. What's that? He will? Indeed 
He'll not. That's what you always say, 'Just give him time.' You 

can't 
Tell me. A child that doesn't care will grow up ignorant, 
And like as not will land in jail, or be a vagabond, 
Provided that he isn't killed or drowned in that old pond." 

Four peaceful years like these pass by, and Dillard's seventeen. 
"Oh, Kate, who's had my shaving set? I left that razor keen 
As ever touched a face, and now it's like a kitchen knife. 
It's strange that I can't have one thing, or ever trust my wife 
To watch that boy. He wears my ties, and hides my comb and 

brush, 
And messes in my collar box, and steals my di — " 

"Oh hush. 
Why don't you get your boy some clothes! He's just about a man. 
You don't know how to raise a son, — forget that Sallie Ann 
McCreary lives a block around the corner. Now Dillard knows 
That Sallie has her eye on him. My land, don't you suppose, — " 
"Well, Sallie Ann, or Sallie Kate, or Sallie High-heel-shoes. 
Just let him doll and dandy up, but Dillard shall not use 
My razor, — not another time ; nor you, to trim your corns, 
I don't care if they grow as long and hard as Jersey's horns. 
Well, where has that boy hid my hone? If he escapes the pen 
I'll miss my guess. Now here I am and it is half-past ten. 
Can't even find my shirt. I'll bet that I give him the birch." 
"Oh, yes, that's just your old excuse to stay away from church." 



PHIL JIM. 

He never did a lick of work for hire or money pay, 
But Phil Jim wasn't lazy, for I've heard his neighbors say 
He'd walk ten miles or more to help a farmer kill his hogs, 
And all he'd ever take would be some chitt'lings for his dogs, 
Or maybe now and then a mess of back-bones or spare ribs; 
And every fall he gathered corn and helped to fill the cribs 
All through the river bottom and way over on Big Fern, 
And might be gone a week or more before he would return 
But always brought back home a ham or side of middling meat, 
Or sometimes hominy and souse, or maybe pickled feet. 
For Phil was mighty thoughtful and a good hand to provide, 
And Sara met him at the door as smiling as a bride. 
At night he went a-hunting and always caught a coon 
Or possum in persimmon time, especially if the moon 
Was shining favorable, or if the zodiac was right, 
For he knew signs for catching game and when the fish would bite. 
He lived an awful easy life, for Phil and Sara had 
A half a dozen females and a little hunch-back lad, 
And Nance and Kate and Sallie Ann, and even little Joe 
Picked berries in the summer and caught rabbits in the snow. 
Then Phil would work with thrasher hands right thru the burning 

heat 
And maybe get a shoulder or sometimes a bag of wheat, 
For he was sure a master hand — the best, they all agreed 
That ever stacked a blade of straw or sacked a grain of seed. 
And somehow Phil was lucky for when fishing wasn't good, 
He helped Sam Johnson shuck his corn and got a load of wood; 
Or if it was too wet to plow, he caught a mess of cats, 
Or earned some meal at Simpson's mill for killing pesky rats. 
Once he had hunted all night long and came back home without 
The striking of a single trail, completely down and out, 
But when he leached his cabin gate, a burst of glorious light 
Was shot athwart the leaden sky, dispelling gloom and night, 
For Sallie Ann came running out just tickled fit to kill, 
"Oh, Dad, we've got a baby and his name is Little Phil." 



MART COMBS 

Mart Combs was just a failure; I have often heard it said 
He had a right good start in life, but couldn't get ahead 
One cent beyond the little farm that came to him by will: 
Instead of climbing up the slope he seemed to go down hill. 
His fences were all toppled down and covered here and there 
With clumps of poison oak and briers ; almost beyond repair. 
The house itself had not seen paint since Martin married Sue 
And took her there a happy bride way back in sixty-two 
The ell he built in eighty-three when Jilson married Kate 
He hadn't finished covering in eighteen ninety-eight. 
The house and yard and stable lot were filled with junk and trasb 
He bought around at sales because some neighbor needed cash 
Farm implements of every kind lay rotting in the field, 
And crop had followed crop until he couldn't get a yield. 
But many millionaires that live in Broadway's finest homes 
Have never known the happiness that thrilled old Martin Combs. 
Though corn was scarce and wheat had failed, this man would rob 

himself 
That he might leave a peck of meal on some bare pantry shelf. 
The poor old tramp that passed his door he fed and kept all night 
Then slipped a coin into his hand to help him win the fight. 
One winter when the snow was deep and all the creeks were 

froze, 
Old Martin like a St. Bernard went out in search of those 
Who might be poor and needing help, and found a negro crone 
Half starved and sick and freezing in her cabin all alone. 
Now Martin knew this old black hag had often stole his wheat 
And apples and potatoes and sometimes a side of meat; 
And even fiilched whole sacks of corn he needed for his bogs; 
But old Mart went and got his team and hauled a load of logs 
And built a fire and nursed her till the woman seemed right 

smart. 
No, no; not heaping coals of fire; but just a great big heart. 



GOLDEN FLEECE 

Played horseshoes at the cross-roads shop 

And hunted every night; 
Ju-^t let the ragweeds take his crop, 

And living out of sight. 

The market means the same to him 

When brogans sell at five, 
And beefsteak's on the new moon's rim, 

But honey in the hive. 

Ginseng now hangs in golden rows 
From joist and puncheon floor, 

And hides of twenty kinds repose 
On barn and cabin door. 

A coonskin brings ten good thrift stamps, 

A mink a baby bond, 
Molasses in the sugar camps, 

And bullfrogs in the pond. 

The ban is off on possum meat, 
With wildgrapes everywhere; 

Let Wall street buy three dollar wheat, 
For what does Jason care. 



THIN BRITCHES DICK 

Thin Britches Dick 

Made loafing his profession; 

Claimed any kind of labor made him sick. 

The fact is loafing seemed a plumb obsession 

With Dick, and he was not responsible. 

Still men would criticise 

And say it was demonstrable 

That a little exercise 

Had cured several cases almost as bad as his. 

But Dick was not convinced, 

As a fellow sometimes is 

By argument, and never winced 

At criticism, but was patient-like 

And seemed to understand, 

And wouldn't strike 

Back, even with his tongue. 

Dick was a different brand 

Of loafer from any ever seen 

Before; apparently, neither old nor young, 

Nor even in between. 

Aged men 

Said Dick 

Was loafing as far back as they could remember. 

And seemed to stick 

Just as close to his job even then 

As any other member 

Of the whole community did to his. 

Now my interpretation is 

Wholly different from his critics', 

And I believe that analytics 

Would reveal that Dick was not obsessed 

At all: 

But that he knew that he possessed 

Real genius for this one thing — 

In fact, had power in this to be a king. 

Probably heard the call 

Early in his youth, 

And understood the truth 

That loafing is a fine art, 

Just as fiddling is, or poetry; 



And for my part 

I believe that he perfected it, 

Even as Beethoven mastered symphony, 

Partly for the reason that he had the grit, 

But mostly because 

He understood its laws 

And used his wit, 

And dedicated his life to it. 

The last time that I ever saw 

Thin Britches Dick 

I thought of Holmes' One Hoss Shay. 

The lining of his trousers still was good, 

And probably about as thick 

As thin silk stockings are today. 

But by what law 

It stood 

The strain 

When almost every stitch 

Of cloth that once had covered it 

Had long since disappeared 

Is something which 

I can't explain. 

I used to wonder how the stuff was knit. 

And I remember that I feared 

That it might one day close the lease 

And in a flash 

Go all to smash 

As did the Deacon's masterpiece. 

But no such apprehensions troubled Dick. 

He knew his pants were getting slick. 

And maybe just a trifle thin; 

But he had tested every strand 

In warp and woof 

And knew the brand. 

And had the proof 

That he could thoroughly depend 

On every thread from waistband to the shin. 

So Dick loafed on unto the end 

Without a sorrow or regret. 

For aught I know he's loafing yet. 



TINY MEEK 

Tine Meek was born on Bullskin Creek, 
But genius such as old man Tine's 
Can not be circumscribed by lines 
Of geographic boundary, 
Or explained by heredity. 
Old Tiny was the only freak 
That ever looked on Bullskin Creek, 
If you traced his stream of blood 
Clean back to father Noah's flood 
You couldn't find another Tine 
In all that long ancestral line. 
His forebears were just common place, 
But old Tine was a real ace. 

This man Tine Meek of whom I speak, 

An epic artist as unique 

As Dante, Chaucer or Defoe, 

Resembled Michael Angelo 

In detailed grasp of every part 

And scope and grandeur of his art. 

He could not use the painter's brush, 

Or carve his dream in stone, 

But he could make the angels blush 

Around the great white throne, 

For he was master of an art 

To which there is no counterpart 

In chisel, brush, or poet's rhymes, 

In Renaissance or modern times. 

Tine Meek was old, but from his youth, 
No man had heard him tell the truth. 
There was no malice in his heart, 

He lied because he loved the art. 
He didn't mean to be profane, 
And Tiny never lied for gain. 
He had a comprehensive mind; 
The truth is cabined cribbed, confined, 
Is just a part, and not the whole; 
And Tine was big and broad of soul. 
He never falsified for fame, 



And Tiny Meek was not to blame. 

He simply didn't have the heart 

To sin against his sacred art. 

He was predestined to the game: 

His body didn't tell the truth; 

He weighed three-hundred pounds, forsooth, 

Yet Tiny was his name. 

If Homer was a worthy Greek, 
Then why condemn old Tiny Meek? 
Did Shakespeare write his name in wax 
Because he didn't stick to facts? 
"There's no more kick in just plain truth 
Than in an artificial tooth; 
And mankind couldn't live a week 
On arid facts," said Tiny Meek. 

His lies had all the tang of wine, 
Though not the truth, they were divine. 
When Peter standing by the gate 
Heard old Tine Meek prevaricate, 
He swung the pearly portals wide, 
And said, "You win, please step inside." 



SQUEEZER JOHN 

Old Squeezer John 

Once owned a farm, — 

Some said a big plantation, — 

That is speaking by comparison. 

But let me say by way of explanation 

That farming wasn't Squeezer's charm. 

Not that he minded toil; 

But plowing wasn't in his line. 

He claimed he couldn't understand the soil 

Or learn the law of crops. 

Besides he didn't have the time. 

He sometimes raised a little hops, 

Or garden truck, or fruit, or thyme, 

And made a jug of beer or wine 

That neighbors said was fine. 

But old man Squeezer certainly 

Was not an agriculturist, 

No more than dominoes is whist, 

Or Bourbon ten years old is tea. 

So Squeezer's soil washed onward to the sea, 

And long before his thirteenth child was born 

His farm had mostly passed away 

For costs and debts he couldn't pay. 

And what was left 

Was just a cleft 

Between two ragged hills 

Denuded by corroding rills — 

In fact was just a big wash-out, 

That wouldn't hardly more than sprout 

A decent blade of corn. 

But men are not all talented same, 

And Squeezer John was in the game. 

Fritz Kreisler can not play a horn 

Nor Schumann-Heinck the fiddle; 

And Woodrow's to the manner born 

But could not solve the riddle 

Of world democracy, 

Except in theory, 

And yet he was a paragon. 

And so was Squeezer John. 



But Squeezer's field was law. 

He didn't know the Statute from the Code, 

And couldn't tell a pleading from an ode, 

And didn't give a straw. 

But what he banked on was the evidence. 

And let me say old Greenleaf didn't have a thing on him. 

It absolutely made no difference 

With Squeezer John about the facts; 

He made the proof to suit his whim, 

Regardless of all legislative acts. 

Now Squeezer John was not a practicing attorney; 

But just a consecrated litigant, — 

A chronic client militant, 

A bold crusader who would journey 

Into foreign parts in search of litigation, 

And buy up any kind of claim, 

Account or note, though barred by limitation, 

And warrant on it just the same. 

He used to say to me, 

"Thar ain't no knowin' 

When some technicalitee 

May come yore way; 

And then it keeps the courts agoin'." 

I listened to the docket called one day, 

And out of sixty cases, 

I counted old man Squeezer's name 

In twenty-seven places. 

But this was in a lower court 

And haidly showed the part he played, 

Or even gave a full report 

Of all he bagged in one crusade. 

He never sued upon a claim 

Primarily to win; 

Such sordid and degrading aim 

He would have looked upon as sin. 

It was not consequence, 

But clash of evidence, 

The set of legal jaw; 

The sharp attack and skilled defense. 

The flow of master eloquence 

That thrilled this old knight-errant of the law. 



Not long ago, 

I asked about old Squeezer John. 

"Why don't you know," 

Said Alex Hon, 

"His last sad acre's passed away, 

And he is sixty-nine today; 

But you can't find a single flaw 

In old man Squeezer's fame. 

With all his youthful fire and flame 

He's still bootlegging law, 

And adding lustre to his name." 



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